Ask Me No Questions
by blc
Summary: M-Rated stream of consciousness piece. A face from Booth's past reappears in Brennan's office. Violent, sexual situations. Angst, Suspense, Romance.
1. Never Forget a Face

_This is a very stream of consciousness piece, and an attempt to play with some literary devices I haven't much experimented with before. Violence and sexual situations.

* * *

_You weren't like Bones, who could tell by the way someone moved at 1000 meters who they were, what their life had been like, what kind of injuries they had-- and could tell even more when the flesh was all gone. You weren't like Angela, who could take bones and make them flesh again, put a name and a face to the features and life events Bones described for her. But you had talents of your own, if '_talent_' was the right word for it. You had an incredible gut instinct, an unbelievable trigger finger, and an unenviable ability to withstand more pain than anyone else you knew _since anyone else put to that much pain died, and you didn't_. You had a _truly freakish_ ability to hit whatever you aimed at, to place the knife where it was needed, to exert the right force on the right bone for all the wrong reasons. Freakish-- all of it, and when your gut turned over or the hairs on the back of your neck started to crawl, you both blessed and cursed _and blessed and cursed and pled for God to explain_ the fact that one of your other freakish abilities was going to come into play. And last but not least among them-- you never, ever, forgot a face.

It wasn't like Bones' near photographic memory for everything. Sure-- you had a better than average recall for details, a better than average ability to put them together, which made you a better than average agent, but the face thing? That was different. Anyone you'd ever spent more than thirty seconds talking to or staring at through the scope of your rifle, or memorizing their dossier photo for a mission, whether or not you completed it? You never forgot a face. _And the faces never forgot you. _It made for interesting dreams, to understate it so much that it was almost a lie. _Never able to forget the ghosts who haunted you._

So as you came in the back door to the lab from the garage at the end of the day, taking that oft-crossed diagonal to your partner's glass-walled sanctuary, your gut flopped and all the hair on your neck and your arms stood up, screaming alert, when you saw her talking to some guy in a suit with his back to you-- you could see her face as you approached, and she looked angry and underneath it, almost frightened out of her mind. You wondered and dreaded which freakish ability was about to be called upon. _No one makes Bones look like that._

You slowed your pace slightly, scanned the rest of the lab to make sure it was just the three of you, and made sure your steps didn't echo, so you could come up behind him, if not Bones, with some kind of surprise. As you approached, you could see that she saw you, and you dared it-- a finger to your lips as the guy's voice talking to her went on, interrupted. She continued to listen, seeming attentive. As you drew even nearer, you could see he was bothering her, seriously so. She looked actively distressed under that calm outward mask of hers. He was a spook-- your gut told you that much. Cops and spooks knew and hated each other-- and this guy was a spook of the first order. _But you were a first order cop, a first order freak, a first order whatever it took to protect the people you loved if you could get a clear shot and sometimes not even that._

So you took your entry in the door at just enough of an angle to get a side view of his face-- then resisted the urge with everything in you to draw the knife even Bones didn't know you always carried and lunge those last four steps that would let you slit his throat instantly. You'd seen that face before, but hadn't had a name then-- and after, the officers claimed they didn't, either. _It's him, Seeley, it's him, _sand the buddies haunting your brain, and still you resisted the urge, the need, the lunge, the kill. You would see if Bones could give you one before you did anything else. Something of your thoughts must have passed over your face as you entered, because Bones said more loudly "Look, Mr. Ferguson, I'm simply not interested in CIA work, I'm sorry to have to say it again. Oh... Booth, hello," she said then, clearly shifting her focus and playing oblivious squint so well that you would kiss her as soon as you were done killing the spook. Ferguson. You had a name. Maybe even a real one.

The man turned to you then, not having registered your presence. Intel, then. Not an operative-- if he was, he'd have known you were there before Bones even noticed you, and face it, Bones was getting pretty good at this. Intel rats were like officers-- happy to boss you around, and too fucking cowardly to do anything but shift blame anywhere and everywhere else when something they were responsible for went wrong. Like it did with this intel rat. But stuff that memory down for the moment. You had an ID to make, information to gather, before you could bring your freakish killing skills to bear. Just hearing Bones insisting on telling him no with that look of anger and well-hidden terror was all the reason you needed, everything else notwithstanding. But the everything else notwithstanding made it all so much easier.

"Hey, Temperance" you said mildly, plastering that face that used to do you so well at the card tables-- and which still did, just in the interrogation room. The '_Temperance_' was a warning, since Bones knew damned well you only called her that when you were serious about something.

You got a better look at his face as he turned, startled at the fact you were almost right on top of him. You listened with half an ear as Bones introduced you as her FBI partner, making mental notes all the while. Same face-- seventeen years older, yes, pudgier, more grey hair-- but _him_, unquestionably. Same flat, inhuman _who would just walk away from something like that, not feel guilty?_ fishy eyes. You told all the other faces whose memories were inextricably linked with his to sit back and be quiet for now-- that you would deal with him in due time. And then reassured them-- yes, time was due, and past due. You would get him for them.

"Booth, this is Aaron Ferguson, he's over at CIA."

You stuck out your hand, mouthing something civil and appropriate as you tested his grip, watched as he extended his arm to see if he was carrying. He wasn't. That made it easier. If he carried at all, he'd be carrying now on quote-unquote official business.

Introductions and too-hard handshake on your part over, you shoved your hands into your pockets, seemingly relaxed as you secretly reassured yourself that your knife was still there. "What brings you to the hallowed halls of the Jeffersonian, then, Ferguson," you asked, affecting professional interest. "Not that Dr. Brennan's expertise isn't valued by anyone, of course."

"Of course," he said. "I was seeking Dr. Brennan's expertise, actually, on a matter that's come up in the last few days and for which we require her special skills."

Bones clenched her jaw behind him as the asshole spook declaimed pompously. You didn't like the word "_require_," not at all.

"Well, Dr. Brennan's so busy that sometimes even the Bureau and other agencies have to take a backseat. And ... speaking of work, Temperance, we're late for that trial preparation meeting with the prosecutor," you added, though there was no such thing. Bones blinked owlishly, then played clueless squint again.

"Oh, dear, I almost forgot. Well, I'm glad you came by, then, Booth. I'd forget my cranium if it wasn't attached to my cervical vertebrae." She quickly started gathering her things, making a show of being in a disorganized rush, and fumbling with her computer.

You gave the spook a "_squints, can't take 'em anywhere_" look, and he rolled his eyes, understanding.

As Bones got out of her chair, you went to the back of her door and pulled off her coat, clearly marking your alpha-male territory. Your Bones. Your Bones' office. Your Bones' coat. Your Bones-- as far away as humanly possible from this ... essence of selfishness, if not active evil. She let you help her on with her coat as she always did, but this time juggled her bags more than she usually did. Better to let the spook think the squint turned into a flake out in the field. Perhaps he didn't know her FBI track record.

One arm on Bones' back, you turned to the face you'd now carved in stone, with a name, in your memory. "Well, nice to meet you, Ferguson. Sorry to interrupt, but hey ... U.S. Attorneys get really cranky when you keep them waiting."

He smirked, nodding, then said, "Well, Dr. Brennan, we can finish this conversation some other time."

Bones stilled under your hand before saying quietly, "I'm sorry, I thought I made myself clear. There are no circumstances under which I would perform work for the CIA. I've already provided you with the names of several persons who you could consult, but in any event, it will not be me."

You stepped back a bit, and Bones stepped back with you, until it was clear that you expected the Ferguson spook to precede you both out the door. He affected some good-willed response, and stepped out into the lab, pulled out a business card to hand to Bones, and again asked her to reconsider. He was much bigger than Bones, and as his hand headed toward Bones with that card in his hand, you instinctively snapped the card away from him. _Too close to my Bones, Spooky Boy. Back off._

"Got it," you said with a smile. "Nice to meet you. Good luck with the case," you continued, the followed Bones out and half-turned to lock up her office, blocking the view of the lock with your body. And set a tell tale that would at least tell you if someone else jimmied the door when you came back to check.

Your hand at Bones' back, and your gut screaming and every hair on your body still standing on end, you dared turn your back on him and steer her off toward the garage entrance you'd come in initially. As you heard his heavy steps recede in the opposite direction, your instinct backed off its alert just a bit, and once you made it all the way back to the truck and got her in her side and you in yours, doors locked and all lines of sight now in view, you let out an almost imperceptible breath. _Safe for now, Seel, _his fellow sentinels said. The sigh--almost imperceptible except to Bones-- she was getting good at this.

"You know him," she said flatly.

You nodded, deciding how best to answer, how not to involve her any more deeply than her own best guess already had.

As you thought, she still watched you. "But he doesn't know you... or remember you?"

You nodded again. "The latter."

She sat, waiting, watching you turn your thoughts over as you inwardly consulted all the other faces demanding attention on what to do next. Finally, she tipped her head and filled the silence, giving you time-- and a new reason for you to bring your freakish killing skills to bear, as she gave you a small explanation with that same look of anger and terror more clear now you two were alone.

"I won't do CIA work. And... I can't tell you why, it's classified. But I made it clear I won't have anything to do with them anymore, though he seems to think I can be ... persuaded to change my mind. But I've never met this man before."

She looked you straight in the eye as she said it, and every damned word meant a hundred others. You'd always wondered about those foreign digs-- whether there wasn't something more to at least some of them than sheer squinty curiosity. Apparently so.

"I know him," you said. "And ... I can't tell you why, same reason. But... it was a long time ago, and I never could find out his name. Never saw him again."

Her deep blue gaze unwavering, she listened to the hundred words under each of yours, then said "Until today."

"Until today," you confirmed.

She sat quiet, just measuring you with that look of hers-- then nodded, and said nothing. Asked nothing. Let you take the lead for once. She really was scared, if that was the case.

You thought long and hard over what she just hadn't told you, and the rest of the faces in your mind started to speak again. _Her, too. He deserves it. We all do. But her, especially. At least we signed up for what actually happened._ They were a veritable Greek Chorus of tortured, murdered buddies, all eighteen and nineteen years old-- they never came back from that first deployment. It was time to complete that mission, complete this new one just added onto it. The faces still fresh in your memory smiled, if such a thing was possible, and sat back a bit, watching and waiting to see you finish the job. Eliminate the targeted threat. And none of them minded, not a one, that the first slash across Ferguson's throat would be for whatever went down for Bones. Those faces, like you, understood that just getting it done was important, no matter the order of priorities. _Just get it done, Seel_, they said. _Just get it done_.

The two of you went to her place and you ordered delivery-- talking of nonsense and neither of you quite ready to be alone, though you didn't speak of the events at the lab any further. You drank one too many beers on purpose, knowing your metabolism would burn it off in an hour, but knowing, too, that it gave you an excuse to sleep on her couch-- to make sure no black-clad spooks in the night tried to follow up their thwarted meeting from earlier. _Don't worry Seel, we'll make sure you wake up, _his buddies said.


	2. Never Too Early for French Fries

The next morning, having not slept a wink, but at least having been able to lie on her warm couch and assure yourself of her safety, you gave up the ghost (but not the ghosts in your head, no, not now, not ever, even after their justice was done) and got up, started some coffee. You tried to be quiet, but she came out after not long, pjs and robe on and looking like she hadn't slept either. Silently, she poured you both mugs, took a sip, then said "You left that suit and your other things that got muddy and soaked here last week. I had them cleaned. They're in my closet-- I'll go get it and you can take a shower."

You nodded, seriously. "Thanks."

You drove her back to the lab, the mood somber, and you wondered what excuse you could come up with to not let her out of your sight until you could be sure of the man's identity and eliminate him _the threat to your Bones, your Bones, your Bones _and the source of all that _pain, the incredible pain, and the screams of your buddies, and the blood and the terror _without her getting all up in arms. She forbore your escorting her back to her office, though it was early, and watched as she pulled out the key.

"Wait," you said. Examined the door. Great. Someone had been in her office. It was probably bugged. You mouthed that to her, and she nodded after she flinched a bit. You stood, pulled a card out of your pocket, wrote on it. _More meetings with Caroline. Get the things you need while I look for them_.

She nodded again, then opened the door.

"Temperance, I can't believe you forgot the rest of the file," you complained as you followed her into the office.

"Booth, you rushed me out of here last night without enough time, what did you expect?" She went to get her computer, stuffed some other files into another bag, and made sounds of frustration.

"Here it is," she said, shuffling some papers.

You, meanwhile, were checking for bugs. Amateurs. One under the desk. One under the couch. One in the lamp. A tap on the phone. You completed the sweep as you bitched about having to meet with Caroline again and how you had better things to do with your time. You decided to leave the bugs in place-- Bones wasn't going to be here anyway, but she nodded as you pointed each thing out to her. Mock conversation continued, you ushered her out again, locked the door again, again placed an infinitesimal telltale.

Cam was just coming in as the two of you headed out to the garage. "Off already?" she asked. "Do we have a body?"

"No," you heard yourself say authoritatively, your freakish ability to lie (you almost forgot about that one) coming into play. "But we've got some trial prep stuff to work on before our meeting with Caroline at the end of the week, so I am bringing Mohammed to the mountain of paperwork."

Bones just nodded. "Because I've got nothing better to do than page through bureaucratic garbage," she grumbled.

Cam snickered, said "Better you than me," and waved them off as she walked away.

You drove straight to the Hoover, parked, and went up to your office. After checking for bugs _it never hurt to be thorough and not trust anyone to do their jobs right because the first time you did look what happened, who died, who still haunted your head_, Bones settled into the couch you'd finally asked for once Bones complained once too many times that you were using her couch to crash on and yet didn't give her the same chance at your office. Not that you minded. If Bones wanted to sleep in your office (your house, your bed, your life) that was just fine with you.

"What did he say he wanted help with?" you asked, as you brought up the computer and started accessing databases.

"He didn't say specifically," she said quietly. "They never do-- just that it was two days ago, that there were five bodies, and that there were burns and trauma. They want me to do all the work at Langley, too, and I won't do that."

"Two days, five bodies, burns and trauma's someplace to start," you said, then started digging.

An hour later, you had him. Boy, these intel rats really were amateurs, as if the bug job in Bones' office wasn't already sufficient indication. He was an intel rat with pretensions to being an operative-- which explained how all that info was bad and led to ... what it led to. Ferguson was his real name-- he made a feeble attempt at an unlisted number and address. Hah. Not when you had a DOD database password of your own and pretty damned high security clearance. Then you looked at the case he was working on, and your skin crawled all over again. You looked over at Bones, and she was typing away, some case files open beside her.

"Please, Bones, whatever you do, don't take that case, and if they try to shoehorn you, shoot them. I'll clean it up afterwards." you said seriously. She put her things aside and came over to look over your shoulder. She stiffened behind you, then said "I agree."

You turned around to look at her for a long moment, and she noted all the information you'd written down on the paper in front of you. Instead of asking you what you planned to do, however, she just nodded and got back to work.

Not three hours after you got to your office, Bones' cell rang. Picking it up, she answered with her usual "Brennan." Her face shifted before she said "I made it clear to him last night that I would not accept the consult. You can tell his boss that, too." She listened further, then said, "Try and I'll quit" in a dead even tone. There were more words on the other end of the line, before she pressed her lips together, said just four more words, and hung up. "I don't joke, Cam."

You arched your eyebrow at her. "Want me to give Cam a call?"

Bones snorted. "No, that will settle her, I'm sure."

"Did you mean it? The quitting part?" you asked, unable to help it.

She looked at you seriously. "Yes. By and large I do not exert my discretion as to the cases I receive consult requests for, but I will not cave to institutional pressure when I have made up my mind not to work on something. I don't care if Cam thinks she's my boss. She needs me, and I don't need her at all. I can work anywhere that I want to, and if she tries to press me on those occasions when I do exert my discretion, well-- it's a violation of my contract, unprofessional, a violation of intellectual standards, and completely unwarranted. I don't really care what she thinks."

You were a bit taken aback at her vehemence, and it must have shown. Bones sighed. "Look... I know she's your ex, and she's a respectable pathologist, and having her present makes things more efficient, since she deals with things I cannot be bothered with, but ... forensic pathologists are thick on the ground. The simple fact is, Booth, there's only one of me, and only a dozen or so of my colleagues. You're supposed to protect scarce resources, not bully them."

She made a moue of distaste, then set back to work. You decided you'd do better than to interrogate your partner _who you wanted to sleep with_ about your ex_ who you slept with even when you knew it was your partner you really wanted to sleep with _right now. You had other work to do.

"Look-- ah, Bones. I need to go check a few things. Would you mind staying here, or ... if you want to go back to the lab, fine, but just ... hang out where someone else is around?"

She looked at you evenly, and you wondered if you'd have a fight on your hands. Well, at least you'd asked her if she minded, rather than just telling he what to do. "Do you think that it's necessary?"

"I'm worried it might be," you said, hoping she didn't press you further. _Plausible deniability, Seel. The less she knows, the less they'll have to charge her as an accessory. _You suppressed a shudder at that thought.

"I'll need to go back to the lab, then," she said. "But ... I'll go work in Angela's office and have her drive me home, or ... find a reason to stay with her, okay?" You suppressed another shudder. Another overprotective alpha-male behavior she acquiesced to without argument. You would find out what made her so willing to cooperate afterward-- unless you couldn't track down what you needed to confirm what you knew was the case about how it all went to Hell _knew it, we all knew it, we felt it with each blow, with each burst of pain, with each scream_ you reassured the faces, still waiting, patiently. It had been seventeen years, it was just a question of the opportune moment. _Take your time, Seel_, they told you or you told you it was really irrelevant. _You've got him in your sights. You always did know best when to pull the trigger_.

"Yeah, thanks," you said gruffly, peeling that one piece of paper off and stuffing it into your pocket. You shut down the computer, switched your phone onto forward, and stood. "Lunch? I'll drop you back afterward..."

She looked at her watch. "Eleven thirty's a little early for french fries..."

"Ah, see, there's where you're wrong, Bones. It's never too early for french fries."

She took the opportunity to laugh. "You said the same thing about pie at breakfast last week."

"That's because it's the truth, Bones."

After lunch, you saw her into the lab, checked the telltale on her door again to find it was undisturbed, then cocked an eyebrow to say so. She nodded, went in to gather her things, and went over to see Angela.

Unable to resist the urge, you stopped off to see Cam. She looked up, surprised. "You and Dr. Brennan all done with your meeting for the day?" You nodded.

"Yeah. And ... leave the CIA thing alone, okay?"

Cam stiffened. "It's my lab, and I can't believe that she complained to you."

You laughed-- you couldn't help it. "Bones doesn't complain, I just happened to be sitting there. And saying my lab? That's like saying Bones is my partner. Just saying it doesn't mean she isn't going to do exactly what she damned well feels like. Like it or lump it, and advertise for a new forensic anthropologist, Cam. Probably a new artist and bug guy too. But ... just ... leave the CIA thing alone. Don't press her. Don't press me. You'll regret it, Camille." And then, while she sat there still looking gobsmacked at the completely implacable tone _don't mess with me Camille, even you don't know what I'm capable of, only Bones and the ghosts in my head have any idea_.

Perhaps you shouldn't have been so hard on her, but damnit, you didn't have time, the bastard didn't know when no meant no. You were going to have to work fast. You hated feeling rushed. But you'd always worked well, even under pressure, as long as your gut kept churning. It was like a cement mixer, now. Your ghosts were silent, content to listen to your instinct churning out _ideas plans revenge_ plans.


	3. No Black So Black

You got home three hours later. His apartment checked out, it was him. You checked out all entries and exits, all security measures. Thank goodness these places didn't have people like you designing security, it would make your job all the harder. There was more you still needed to do, but you made a few calls-- '_discreet inquiries_,' the so-called pros like to call it-- to see if the information would yield to you the right way. It didn't, and toward quitting time, you called Bones.

"Hey," she said, answering her phone.

"Any trouble?"

"No--" she said. "Angela's got to stay a bit late, though, so I'm going to work in her office until it's time to go."

"Thank you."

There was a pause on her end, then she volunteered-- "If you need me, call my cell. I'm having a problem with ants at my place, and asked my super to set off a bug bomb."

"Right-o," you said, assuming that Angela was still in the room. "Thanks-- I'll call you later, but call me if you need anything. And ... you have your..."

"Yes," she responded. "All set."

You weren't up for your more usual banter, and she knew it. "Okay. Take care, Bones."

"You too, Booth."

You would take care. Take care of Bones and your buddies, take care of Ferguson and his _the information is solid, we know where their hideout is, there's only three of them but it's an important communications point, it will be easy to take them all out_. All the hair had been up on the back of your neck as soon as you got there, but even all your freakish skills hadn't been enough _though you all put up a fight, my God you all put up a fight _to keep fifteen of them from taking the six of you.

You set down the phone. Walked away from the dark wood of the furniture in your living room, the glossy surfaces catching and reflecting light, warming the room. Walked down the hall, painted a warm orange red _not dried brown maroon like blood so much blood all that blood when it dries and flakes off like paint_, and entered the bedroom. Warm woods, warm orange reds and bronzes. You always told Parker there were no monsters under the bed, brought in the flashlight to shine it under there, have him look under there with you, prove to him that there was nothing hiding there in the darkness. You reached under your bed, though, and pulled out the monster _your monster the one you knew full well was there every damned night when you went to sleep and yet learned to live with_ the dull black duffel that absorbed all the light in the room, the heat in the room, reflected nothing.

Unzip. Open. Note with amazement that your hands aren't shaking. That you're not hyperventilating. That you're not crouched over a toilet, heaving your guts out. _Seel, you always could keep it together until it was over_, they said. _Get going, buddy, get those last few bits of information you need_.

Black clothes. Black greasepaint. Night vision goggles. Other black equipment-- ropes, scopes, binoculars, all that state of the art black ops murderer jazz. Black weapons, dull cold metal _they used them on us and it was so cold, sucked the life out of you with each stab and you remembered it ever after-- when you had to use them again against memories, each stab to someone else recalling each one you suffered. _You wondered if you'd still feel the stab when you turned the weapons the enemies turned on you back on Ferguson-- the willful purveyor of ignorance, the possible merchant of death.

Who was he working for? How did he screw up so badly? Why hadn't he killed himself from grief and shame that five of you were killed _five young men in the prime of their lives and flush with love of their country were brutally tortured and killed for the fun of it since all the information there was to torture from them was all bad anyway_ _and he was to blame_. Black gloves, leather. You never liked latex-- too sweaty, and you were superstitious about slippage even though your hands were always steady, always hit slit stabbed punched crushed what you aimed for. But still, you preferred kidskin or calfskin. Baby animal leather, slaughtered so you could take lives in comfort and leave no prints behind you. Tools that let you set the trap, lead your prey to your chosen waiting place. Like lambs to the slaughter.

_Just like we were, Seel_. _Lambs in camo with rifles, led to the slaughter_.

You tried not to talk aloud to them once you got the nightmares mostly under control _boy had those first six months been bad_, but you were alone, and the silence, the cold, the black lacking reflection, the black duffel's contents sucked in all the good things you'd done in the meantime.

"Just like we were, guys." You needed to reassure them, reassure yourself that you were doing the right thing, the only thing, the imperative thing, the thing that anyone reasonable, anyone who knew or who could understand would agree was what had to be done. _We do bad things to prevent worse people from doing the worst things_, you'd all told each other. Bones got that, she'd killed before, to protect you each time. You would protect her. It was partners did. It was what brothers in arms did. It was what people who loved each other did when there was no other choice.

_Seel, it's okay. There's no other choice_, your dead buddies said, their faces sympathetic and truthful. You hoped it was them, and not your own inner voice, the one who still felt your own pain _whimpering shameful terrified screaming pain_. But that didn't matter. The threat to Bones was enough.

_Yes, Seel, it is_, your buddies all said. _She's a keeper. Remember, Seel? We all wanted a keeper. Keep her, Seel. She's a keeper._

"She is."

* * *

You were going to find some way to bring to people's attention how easy it was to break into supposedly secure government buildings when you got done with this, you thought to yourself as you shimmied through the air ducts after midnight. You never really liked that song, Clapton much, either. You finally reached the right turn in the ducts, stopped to listen to make sure there was no one below. Third grate on the left. It opened outward, you hated that because you had to hold onto it while leaning out and not drop it onto the floor, but the grate openings were always too small to just stick your fingers through. Bones' clever little fingers would have found purchase, wove their way through to hold tight enough to do what was needed _she held tight when you were shot, you've never had someone hold that tight to your hand before, it was like the only way you could hold on was because she was holding your hand so tightly it gave you an anchor and when you woke in the hospital your hand hurt, there were actually bruises, she'd squeezed it so hard._

But you had it, and there were file cabinets to rest it quietly on, and you were able to push out _feet first, clear the cabinets, cat crouch Seeley boy, stay down on all fours until you made sure no one heard you _and set to work.

You were good. You'd have made a good operative, but you were no spook, though you could outspook a spoke most days of the week. You just needed today and tomorrow, though. You weren't greedy-- just vengeful.

A half hour later, you had everything you needed, pictures of it all _you were really outspooking the spooks right now, Hodgins would have a field day with this little spook camera, _in case it was needed. Not to clear you, necessarily. Just to make clear why you'd done it. You didn't expect them to condone it. Just to understand why you thought it had to be done. Thank heavens bureaucrats of all stripes believed in maintaining paperwork in an over-organized way-- the file showed all the failures clear as day _as blinding as the sun when they'd drag you all out, beaten and bound to burn in the sun until your skin cracked and bled, your lips cracked and bled, you'd never be able to drink enough water to ever feel cool again _and more than enough to justify what you were going to do. You saw red, a different red than the blood hazing your vision from that gash on the top of your head or the spatter as they slit Mikey's throat right in front of you.

Then you put everything back, hoisted yourself up, pulled the grate back up behind you, and went on to your next stop. Three rooms down, three grates down. Civilian files, not military ones. It was all on the same corridor, and she hadn't told you not to look-- just said it was classified and that she couldn't tell you.

Grate down on another conveniently placed cabinets. _For spooks they sure make it easy to climb in through the airducts, too much faith in those computerized systems and cameras when one guy with a signal disruptor and black clothes who knows how to move right is more than enough. _File located-- civilians were organized by name, all episodes batched in one file. Efficient. You snorted. Bones liked efficiency. Under these circumstances, so did you. So you read, and saw red all over again. Redder than before. Redder than ever in your life. No wonder they wanted her on this case, they wanted her to clean up the shit they'd messed up that led her to getting hurt _they let Bones get hurt no one let Bones get hurt and lived to regret it if you could just get a clear shot _in the first place.

_It's okay, Seel. We fought so this piece of shit, all his fellow pieces of shit wouldn't fuck things up so badly that civvies like her, even badass tough civvies like her, wouldn't get caught in their messes. And she got caught in them anyway. That's what we fought for, so shit like what happened to her shouldn't have happened in the first place, but they betrayed us so we couldn't do our jobs protecting civvies like her. _Your inner Greek Chorus was almost as angry as you were.

Pictures taken. File returned. Grate replaced. Shimmied, snuck, hopped out the two floors up to the ground, different entrance than the one you came in, still a half-foot gap in the cameras' coverage. Cat crouch. Wait. No security lights, your little convenient electronic friend still working its charm.

Around the corner, another one, and then the alley three streets away. Back in the truck, back home, back to cleaning off the black stain on your face _on your soul _back to planning. But not quite yet.

"_Everything ok_?" you texted. There was a fair chance she was asleep, it was two in the morning, but if she was up, maybe she'd answer.  
_  
"Yes. Breakfast at 730?"_

You had a foolish smile on your face as you scrubbed off the greasepaint, the stench of it sure to linger in your nose for days after you cleaned all over it _but still better than the blood smell _but maybe her perfume tomorrow as you sat next to her at the diner counter would make the smell less noticeable.


	4. She Cooks, Too

Breakfast was just what you needed. _Boy, Seel, _your Greek Chorus said, admiring, _that sure is some perfume, we could smell that forever and never get tired of it, it makes that greasepaint and blood smell just disappear. Does she do that for gunpowder and gungrease too?_

"Yeah, she does."

Bones looked at you oddly and you realized you were talking to the voices in your head aloud. Bad. Better get this over with, soon. "I didn't say anything," she said.

"Sorry," you said. "I was thinking of something."

She looked at you for a moment-- "Fine."

You saw her back to the lab, and her office was broken into again. You gritted your teeth. Broad daylight was hardly the time to slit someone's throat. You showed her the three new bugs, blinds drawn and doors closed as you did so, yet again exchanging nonsensical chatter until Angela knocked and then entered, saying "You kids have been in here five minutes, please tell me you're doing the naughty, _finally_."

Bones was game. "I don't know what that means, Angela. Naughty?"

You just rolled your eyes. "Let's just say Angela has an overactive imagination. Supper?"

She nodded, said "Fine. Come by whenever," and sat down to work.

You said your goodbyes, then sauntered off to security bold as brass, stole last night's security films and the ones before last, and whistled your way out with them under your arm as you waved at the security guard. _Squints_.

The cameras showed a dark and fuzzy spot right outside Bones' door. Anyone who wasn't a pro wouldn't know it was more than a trick of the eye, but a trick of goo on the right spot on the camera. You were going to have to talk to Cam about lab security when this was over. And maybe put Bones' office on its own circuit.

You worked away at your usual breeding like rabbits stack of paperwork at your desk with half a mind, the rest of you planning and occasionally consulting your Greek Chorus as to tactics for later, then had to explain to them what a Greek Chorus was, because they never got old enough to go to college and learn it themselves. Proof enough they were real ghosts, whatever that meant, and not just figments of your imagination, because if they were figments, they'd already know everything you did.

And then at 530, an email from her to your phone, as if she were typing at her computer and couldn't credibly use her phone.

_Ferguson back, rather insistent & attempting to blackmail. Rather not shoot him_.

You stopped only long enough to email her back.

_Stall. Be there soon_.

Sirens were too obvious, but lights let you blow through the three lights and usual five minute to the lab to get there in three, up into the garage in one, then up the stairs _elevators are always too slow _and then into the lab where Hodgins and Angela were still working and attempted to greet you, only to get a curt "_shh_" hand gesture as you made your way to Bones' office, her door closed and Ferguson's form clearly visible.

One hand was on her lap, and she had the drawer she kept her gun in half open, her hand near it to draw. When you walked in, he was clearly in the middle of attempting to blackmail her.

"I think people would be quite interested to know that the famous Temperance Brennan was involved in such dirty doings. It would be in everyone's best interest if you just played nicely."

You huffed a laugh and he wheeled, startled. "Clearly you don't know Dr. Brennan, Mr. Ferguson. She never plays nicely with anyone. And she's got a mean right hook, I've got personal experience."

Ferguson started to turn red. "Now look, I don't know why think you can barge in here," he started.

You were very quiet, very restrained at not killing him right there. Instead, you just took as step into his face. He still didn't recognize you, the heartless inhuman bastard.

"I think Dr. Brennan's my partner, and that at least I know when to take no for an answer, and when to not try to blackmail her. Since when is the CIA so desperate for help that it feels the need to try to blackmail a scientist, unless there were some dirty doings of their own that they needed desperate help fixing?"

Bones stayed quiet and still as you gave your even-toned speech to Ferguson. It didn't matter that you'd shown a lot of your cards. He wasn't going to have time to do anything about it anyway, and by the time that he got his cronies organized, it would be over.

A vein bulged in the intel rat's forehead, but he knew better than to say anything further, and stormed out. As you watched him depart, you snorted to yourself, satisfied. He still wasn't carrying.

"Supper?"

"Sure," she said. "Let me just get my things."

"Be right back, then," you said. Out to security, with strict instructions not to let Ferguson back. "Yeah, Larry, I know he's CIA, but the guy's just bad news, okay?" He looked at you for a long moment, then nodded. "If you say so, Agent Booth."

By the time you were back, she was ready to go, and gave Hodgins and Angela a wave before leaving.

"What now?" she asked.

"You're going to make Mac and Cheese," you said, shooting her a grin. "Then I'm going to take care of a few things."

She smiled slowly. "Mac and Cheese it is," she said.

_Oh, Seel. She cooks, too?_

_Yeah, she does._

_

* * *

_She had her gun. She agreed to lock the doors and even her windows. Agreed not to let anyone in unless it was you and a message you would both understand. And yet you persisted in pretending that there was plausible deniability. Not that Bones wasn't capable of keeping a secret. She was almost as good a liar about some things _they let her get hurt and she kept their fucking secrets _as you were.


	5. Mister FixIt

You made your way in easily, tool kit in hand. _Tool kit. Hah. Good one, Seel, we like that_, they said, their grins wolfish. _Mister Fucking Fix-It. You're going to fix it._

_Sure am, boys._

He was surprised when you grabbed him from his bed by the throat, tightly to cut off his air, cut off any protest, surprise him so much that you could punch him in the nuts and haul his sorry ass to the bathroom _always easier to clean tile than fabric _and toss him into the tub. The crunch and smack of his head against the tile was satisfying, too satisfying.

_It's okay, Seel. Make it clean. _

He saw your face, knew it was you from this recent encounter. Still didn't know who you were, from before.

"You probably won't remember, but I'll tell you why anyway," you said, your fingers exerting just the right pressure to let in air but not let out any noise, your other knee bearing down on his nuts so he can't get up from where you've got him sprawled in a bathtub.

"Seventeen years ago. Unit of six. A sure thing, you said, a simple communications outpost in a remote location, critical to the small remaining Baathists that should be just a clean up job. A clean up job, you said. It took them two weeks to find us, and I was the only one who made it out. My buddies want you to remember them the way I do."

His eyes bulged, and fear glazed them over. But it was blind fear-- he still didn't remember.

"Intel spooks. Never very intelligent," you said, then ended it. Lambs to a slaughter.

_Thanks, Seel_.

_It's not over until the party's all cleaned up, fellas._

_You got that right. We have an idea for how to get rid of him. We think you'll agree that it's fitting._

Two and a half hours later, tool kit reassembled _thank goodness for the squints, you'd have missed that last bit of blood on the tile without the blacklight and thank heavens for bleach spray _mess cleaned, rubbish disposed of, you were home. Put away the black bag. Scrubbed off the greasepaint. No smile on your face this time, but your Greek Chorus was satisfied, their faces growing almost dim in your memory already. It felt like it was three days, not three hours, since you'd started to finish it all, but you always worked fast.

_Thanks, Seel_, they half-whispered.

* * *

_Are you awake_? you sent, your fingers shaking now that it was over.

_Yes. I'll undo the bolt_. Your fingers stopped shaking.


	6. Her Perfume Embraced You

You tended to wear black anyway, but there was black, and then there was black. Ordinary, every day foul mood black, and extraordinary dull cover everything in cold nothingness black. Black was efficient-- made for less trouble, matching things, went with jeans and khakis. Tonight you wanted color, so you let yourself in wearing jeans and sneakers and a brightly-striped t-shirt that matched a pair of socks Parker gave you for Christmas _not that you'd ever wear a t-shirt that made you look like Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street but he didn't need to know that_ but tonight it was just the thing. Color. A gift from an innocent heart-- to go visit a heart far from innocence for her own, separate reasons, but just like you still kept going. It was something.

She was sitting on the couch, reading in a dim pool of lamplight, the rest of the apartment dark, her phone on the table in front of her. She turned to watch you shoot the bolt home again, kick off your shoes, then come over and sit on the couch next to her. A long sigh escaped you, and she handed you the beer she'd been working on.

You took what she offered, and downed a few gulps. Plausible deniability, you reminded yourself. Make some light conversation. She did it for you.

"Nice shirt there, Ernie." A slight smile tinged her mouth.

"Parker gave it to me," you responded. "Matches the socks." You waggled your toes just for emphasis.

She smiled again. "I see. But that doesn't mean I've ever seen you in anything like that before."

You snorted. "Hey. Maybe I wear firetruck pajamas too. I'm a man of unplumbed depths, Bones."

She shifted, hitching one leg under you as she turned to regard you. "Still waters?"

"Something like that." You looked at her, feeling stuck for something to say. It was quiet in your head not just for the first time in days but weeks, months, years, more than a decade.

For lack of words, you picked up your beer and drank the rest of it, then reached forward to set it on her coffee table. When you sat back, she took your right hand _your shooting slicing punching killing hand or at least the one you used the most _up in hers, pulling it toward her under the lamplight. Your eyes on her, you looked to see what caught her eye.

Traces of a distinctive maroon brown color at the edges of the fourth and fifth fingers, barely visible. _You need a new nail brush. _It would be funny, except that it wasn't and wouldn't ever be.

"Did you ever read Oliver Goldsmith?" she asked, leaning in, her breath warm she was so close.

"Ask me no questions," you said quietly. More things the Greek Chorus hadn't gotten to learn. But they were content with what they'd learned tonight, and had exited the rear dead center of your mind's stage.

"I'll tell you no lies," she finished. It was true, both ways. She asked no questions, you wouldn't have to lie, and she never lied to you, either. _A truth-teller, secret-keeper, privacy protector._

She leant forward, and you did too, and the next thing you knew all the gungrease and gunpowder and blood and greasepaint in the world would never bother you ever again because her lips were on yours, under yours, her tongue and teeth and the taste of her so sweet under the beer and the Mac and Cheese you both had earlier.

She was heaven and _oh she was heaven right here_ under your hands she was silk, and she sighed and said your name in a way that meant someone more than who you'd been until she said it right now with that voice and that look in her eye. It was like coming home, she Penelope to your Odysseus, and it was all fitting because that was a poem, not a play _all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players but oh, no more exits, no, not with her, ever again._ There was no Greek Chorus in the Odyssey. Just homecoming, after a long time travelling and never being quite sure if you'd make it or if she'd still be there when you arrived-- if you could find your way-- though you'd always hoped.

And here you were, home, and her hands on you were gentle and warm and told you that you were there, that you were real, that wherever else you'd been earlier, whatever else you were doing that night, she wanted you there. She didn't ask with her hot mouth, her soft lips, her sweet breath on your skin as she kissed you, tasted you, licked you and sucked you, _cleaned you of all your sins and the extraordinary dull cold black that reflected no light no love nothing good_, she made sure you knew that you were here now. And you were.

You touched her to content your heart, her hands in yours as she arched up to meet you, nothing sharp or dagger-like in the way she looked at you and said your name as you first sheathed yourself in her. This time her heat was no oppressed lonely imagining-- she was palpable, the smell and feel and sound and sight of her all real. All real and yours, your Bones, her Booth, and your coming together soon had you coming together, her meeting and matching you as ever.

Your cry from the depths of your gut _that damned gut that saved you and her and would continue to do so as much as you hated it but it didn't matter because it let you love her and protect her _as she took you in again and again, as you erupted inside her, her own echoing welcoming call of your name that now meant something different just because she said it that way. You weren't _Seel_ any more, and all the other things that went with being _Seel_ went by the wayside as you pulled her as you lay on your side, her heart beating _beating beating_ _beating_ against yours as you lay, staring at one another, eyes the windows to the soul and yes, they were dark windows but she didn't mind letting you look into hers as long as you let her look in yours. So you did, until sleep shut the lids you both sought to keep open, and you dreamed, but only of her.

You woke to her in your arms and a smile on her face as she continued to sleep, and you stared at it for thirty seconds and more. You never forgot a face. You would never forget this one.

_She's a keeper, Seel. We're outta here, buddy, and thanks_, they whispered once more. _Yep. She's a keeper, _they whispered-- then were gone.

"She is."

"Mmm. Who is?" she said, her voice soft and low still with sleep.

"You are-- you're a keeper, Bones."

She smiled more widely, blinking at you, then shifted to stroke the side of your face with her hand _those soft hands _and sighed in your mouth as you kissed her _that sweet breath those soft lips _and pulled her into your arms again, her warm limbs tangling with yours, her perfume around you as you embraced her _as how her perfume embraced you_, and yes, hers was a face you wouldn't forget as she took you home again. Yes it was home, as she called your name again and reminded you that you could be who you were with her and she would ask you no questions.

* * *

**_I had an eclectic reading list this weekend. Some Shakespeare, some Joyce, some Goldsmith. This was the result._**


End file.
